Sam was riveted on a single hut, Reed and Beauty Markâs.
Curiously, the horse herd was more closely watched than the village. Looked like enemies in this country were more likely to steal horseflesh than to attack such a big camp.
Everyone was asleep, had been asleep for hours. Sam didnât see a good opportunity yet. Damn, If I donât get a chance by first light, I guess Iâll just go like a berserker. That was a word heâd learned from Hannibal the magician.
Oh, cuss and to hell with it.
Sam stood up on the boulder. Now.
He looked at the moon, sagging down the western sky, full-bellied. Now was the time. Maybe the moonlight would be enough to find The Celt.
He slid off the rock, and Coy leapt down. Sam padded slowly, carefully toward the hut. He kept balanced. He avoided touching the limbs of bushes. He made sure of every foot placement. After every step he waited and listened.
He circled the hut and approached the back side. The moon shone bright here. The willow leaves, dry on the branches, let speckles of moonlight into the hut.
A dozen feet behind the hut Sam squatted. He could make out nothing in the interior but shadows. He couldnât even be sure where the sleeping figures were. If they were like Crows, Reed and Beauty Mark slept at the rear of the lodge.
He studied the area above where the coupleâs bed probably was. Crows, Sioux, most Indians of the plains and mountains hung their rifles from leather thongs at the rear, well off the ground. Maybeâ¦
He thought about it.
He covered his face with his hands so his eyes would let in more of the faint light. He popped his hands away. Yes, he was pretty sure. Parallel to the earth, three or four feet off the ground, at the very back of the lodge he could see a long, rodlike shape.
The Celt.
He hardly dared think. Could he do it? Slip both hands silently through the branches? Yes. The branches bent to shape the lodge stood well apart. Hold The Celt with one hand and cut the thongs with the other? He probably could. Slip The Celt back out of the branches? That would be tricky. But what a hoot, if I can get away with it.
He cautioned himself. When I get it, I canât fire it. There was no telling whether the muzzle might be blocked with something.
He stood up again. Step by step he eased forward. Coy stood to one side, sniffed, and watched curiously. Every step closer, every step closer.
Now he could almost smell the sleeping couple, almost hear the deep, rhythmic breaths. He could hardly believe that The Celt was within reach.
He snaked his right hand through the lodge branches. Silence. Had he done it?
He grasped the rifle.
Except it wasnât The Celt. He had his hand onâ¦a flint spearhead.
Sam smothered a laugh and almost peed on himself.
He was holding Reedâs spear!
âMmmm!â
Every hair on his body squiggled.
He jerked his hand out and leapt back.
Someone spoke.
Sam jumped. He breathed and calmed himself. A female voice. Sounded like âark-fart,â but he knew only about twenty words of Mojave.
He padded slowly backward, watching the hut.
Now the manâs voice sounded.
The womanâs.
He lost his poiseâhe turned and sprinted back behind the boulder. Coy trotted at his heels.
He crouched and listened.
Nothing. He seemed to have disturbed no one. No movement came from Reed and Beauty Markâs lodge, and no sounds loud enough to hear. He tried to melt into the rock.
Silence. Waiting. Breathing again.
Soon a surprise. Across the village he saw tinder flame up. An infant fire lit the face of a woman bending over it.
He watched and waited, every sense super-alert.
Beauty Mark came out of her hut, got down on her knees, and started making a fire. The way she was going about it, it looked like she would singe her bare nipples.
Around the village other fires spurted up, a dot of orange here, a flicker there.
Beauty Mark hung a metal pot over the flames on a tripod, a pot
Curiously, the horse herd was more closely watched than the village. Looked like enemies in this country were more likely to steal horseflesh than to attack such a big camp.
Everyone was asleep, had been asleep for hours. Sam didnât see a good opportunity yet. Damn, If I donât get a chance by first light, I guess Iâll just go like a berserker. That was a word heâd learned from Hannibal the magician.
Oh, cuss and to hell with it.
Sam stood up on the boulder. Now.
He looked at the moon, sagging down the western sky, full-bellied. Now was the time. Maybe the moonlight would be enough to find The Celt.
He slid off the rock, and Coy leapt down. Sam padded slowly, carefully toward the hut. He kept balanced. He avoided touching the limbs of bushes. He made sure of every foot placement. After every step he waited and listened.
He circled the hut and approached the back side. The moon shone bright here. The willow leaves, dry on the branches, let speckles of moonlight into the hut.
A dozen feet behind the hut Sam squatted. He could make out nothing in the interior but shadows. He couldnât even be sure where the sleeping figures were. If they were like Crows, Reed and Beauty Mark slept at the rear of the lodge.
He studied the area above where the coupleâs bed probably was. Crows, Sioux, most Indians of the plains and mountains hung their rifles from leather thongs at the rear, well off the ground. Maybeâ¦
He thought about it.
He covered his face with his hands so his eyes would let in more of the faint light. He popped his hands away. Yes, he was pretty sure. Parallel to the earth, three or four feet off the ground, at the very back of the lodge he could see a long, rodlike shape.
The Celt.
He hardly dared think. Could he do it? Slip both hands silently through the branches? Yes. The branches bent to shape the lodge stood well apart. Hold The Celt with one hand and cut the thongs with the other? He probably could. Slip The Celt back out of the branches? That would be tricky. But what a hoot, if I can get away with it.
He cautioned himself. When I get it, I canât fire it. There was no telling whether the muzzle might be blocked with something.
He stood up again. Step by step he eased forward. Coy stood to one side, sniffed, and watched curiously. Every step closer, every step closer.
Now he could almost smell the sleeping couple, almost hear the deep, rhythmic breaths. He could hardly believe that The Celt was within reach.
He snaked his right hand through the lodge branches. Silence. Had he done it?
He grasped the rifle.
Except it wasnât The Celt. He had his hand onâ¦a flint spearhead.
Sam smothered a laugh and almost peed on himself.
He was holding Reedâs spear!
âMmmm!â
Every hair on his body squiggled.
He jerked his hand out and leapt back.
Someone spoke.
Sam jumped. He breathed and calmed himself. A female voice. Sounded like âark-fart,â but he knew only about twenty words of Mojave.
He padded slowly backward, watching the hut.
Now the manâs voice sounded.
The womanâs.
He lost his poiseâhe turned and sprinted back behind the boulder. Coy trotted at his heels.
He crouched and listened.
Nothing. He seemed to have disturbed no one. No movement came from Reed and Beauty Markâs lodge, and no sounds loud enough to hear. He tried to melt into the rock.
Silence. Waiting. Breathing again.
Soon a surprise. Across the village he saw tinder flame up. An infant fire lit the face of a woman bending over it.
He watched and waited, every sense super-alert.
Beauty Mark came out of her hut, got down on her knees, and started making a fire. The way she was going about it, it looked like she would singe her bare nipples.
Around the village other fires spurted up, a dot of orange here, a flicker there.
Beauty Mark hung a metal pot over the flames on a tripod, a pot
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